“Good afternoon,” they said in unison, giving Britt a once over.
“Good afternoon,” she replied, knowing it was impolite in Palmchat culture not to greet anyone back. Britt pressed against the window as the first woman with deep mahogany skin and dark curls swept up in a bright madras headwrap slid in beside her. The woman’s friend, an older woman with a neat halo of silver-streaked locs and gold bangles clicking softly against her wrists, took the spot on the end of the seat.
“Like I was saying,” the elder said, “if I do see that woman who was chased all over Conrad, I’m not calling the police. She’s safer if no one knows where she is.”
“I just hope she’s somewhere safe.” The younger woman nodded her head emphatically. “It’s a shame how much crime we have now on the island. We’re becoming as bad as St. Killian. The next thing you know, the PC-5 will run our towns like they do there.”
“Maybe they already are,” the elder said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Any man that bold to chase a woman with a knife through the crowded town has to be a gang member, don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow toward Britt, inviting her into the conversation.
Britt nodded in response, which seemed to please both women.
“I swear, when Bernadette King was still around, she stopped all of this foolishness from happening on our island. God rest her soul,” the elder continued.
“That’s who we need to step up and fix this,” the younger said. “The King Family owns half the land on this island. They are the ones who should use some of those billions to make our streets safe again.”
Britt listened intently, relieved that neither woman recognized her. The tidbits about island politics and the rise andcrime were intriguing but didn’t trigger any new memories. She had no clue who Bernadette King or the King Family were, but she knew the PC-5, the dominant criminal organization in the Palmchat Islands.
She clenched her fists in frustration. The little she was starting to remember was the tiniest tip of the iceberg of her life. And she was growing impatient to find out more. She closed her eyes, praying she’d find answers at 67 Nova Lane.
Would the people there recognize her? Were they her family? Did they know she was missing? Had they been hoping and praying for her return? More importantly, would she recognize them? Or would they be as unfamiliar as the face she looked at in the mirror?
“Miss in the yellow,” the jitney driver called out, slowing the minivan to a stop along the side of the road. “This is your stop.”
Britt glanced down and realized he was talking to her.
“Nova Lane is two blocks down that street.” He pointed toward a stop sign intersecting with the road they were on.
Britt apologized to the two women as they gathered their bags and stood, giving her room to maneuver out of the seat. As she stepped off the jitney, she stared at the street sign that read Copper Road. It didn’t ring a bell.
“Just cross the street and walk down two blocks,” the driver reiterated. “Then you’ll see the sign for Nova Lane.”
“Got it,” Britt said, gripping her crossbody purse. “Thank you.”
Minutes later, she stood at the corner of Nova Lane and turned right as an avalanche of memories flooded her. She walked slowly, recognizing each house she passed. Some hadn’t changed from what she remembered. Others had been painted or slightly remodeled, but she clearly remembered what they looked like before. This was her neighborhood. She’d lived in one of these pastel-colored homes with wraparound verandas,decorative gingerbread trim, and steep metal roofs to withstand tropical storms.
Her pulse quickened as the numbers on the homes increased—55, 59, 61. In the distance, she saw the house she’d lived in. She didn’t have to be close enough to read the numbers to know it was the right place.
Closing her eyes, she tried to remember what it was like on the inside. Who lived there with her? But that part was a blank, out of her reach. But she was about to find out if someone who knew her still lived there.
She walked with more purposeful steps as a dark truck raced past her down the road. She ducked between two homes out of view, eyes locked on the truck as it parked in the driveway of 67 Nova Lane.
The driver’s door swung open, and she stifled a scream as The Visitor stepped out. What the hell was he doing here? How did he know about 67 Nova Lane? Had he always planned to check the island for her, or had the man who chased her yesterday tipped him off?
The answer was pointless.
He was here, and there was only one reason he’d shown up at 67 Nova Lane—to find her.
Britt ducked below the hedges, peering at The Visitor as he jogged up the porch steps and knocked on the door. He waited a few minutes, then knocked louder.
Britt held her breath, hoping that no one would come to the door.
That whoever was inside the house stayed safe from him.
The soft creak of a door opening filled her with dread.
An elderly man emerged from the house, back hunched over as he greeted The Visitor. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” The Visitor said, his voice dripping with manufactured charm. “Have you lived in this house for long?”
